


Rose Wilson Noir

by CavannaRose



Series: Rose Wilson Fics [3]
Category: Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), New Teen Titans, Teen Titans (Comics), Teen Titans - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Loss of Parent(s), Mild Language, Parent Death, Parent-Child Relationship, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 11:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 16,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4875742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavannaRose/pseuds/CavannaRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A re-imagining of the life of Rose Wilson if she had grown up in the 30s/40s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intro

_Rose Wilson_. She trailed her fingers over her name just below the letterhead from the Royal Academy of Dancing. So many thoughts flew through her mind, not a few of them for the man whose last name she bore. It was strange, for all Lillian Worth's feminist, flapper style and attitude, she had things that she remained traditional about, like the last name of her only child. But this was not a time to be worrying about absent fathers, despite the stigma of the single mother, Lillian had been an amazing mother, instilling confidence and a core of firm feminist values in her daughter. And she had given her the joy of dance. Rose had been a graceful, agile child, and so she took to ballet, and her mother encouraged her. After all this... here she was. Accepted into the most prestigious dance school in Europe. It nearly took her breath away. She hadn't even waited to get home to open the letter. Rose smiles, remembering how excited the postmaster had been for her. She'd been too excited and nervous to read it herself, but old John was always obliging. She inhaled the paper once more, then burst in through the front door of their small cottage. 

"Mama! Mama! It came! I got in!" Rose frowned, the house was still dark, nothing was cooking in the kitchen. She sighed. Mama must be out with one of her many gentleman friends again. Shrugging Rose pinned the letter to the ice box so Mama would see it as soon as she got in, and went to their room to stretch and practice her pirouettes.

An hour later, there was a loud rapping on the front door. Startled, Rose cautiously moved to peer out the window, in case it was those nasty debt collectors again. It seemed like they came a lot these days, but Mama would just laugh and go out with her gentlemen friends, and the debt collectors would go away for a week or two. Lifting the curtain Rose peeked out and saw to uniformed police officers. Oh... that could not be good. A shaking started up through Rose's body, and hesitating a little more with each step, she slowly opened the door, looking up at the two men.

The older of the two men gave her a kind, sympathetic smile. "Are you Miss Rose Wilson, daughter of Lillian Worth?" Wordlessly, Rose nodded, fear in her eyes as she looked between the two bobbies, and then the man with the gentle eyes shattered her entire universe. "There's been an accident Miss... Your mother... She didn't make it."

Rose's legs gave out beneath her, quicker than either of the two men who moved to catch her, she collapsed to the floor. It took a full minute for her to realize that the high-pitched keening was coming out of her own mouth. When she did though, she silenced it. Remembering hushed words Mama had whispered to her long ago. _Never let them see you cry_. Rose's face went blank, her voice went silent, and she simply looked up at the two officers with wide, sad eyes. 

"Miss... I know this has been quite a shock, but we need you to come down to the station..."

Hours passed, grueling hours where they quizzed Rose mercilessly about her mother's habits, activities, her father. Gone was the caring concern from when they greeted her, and Rose became increasingly surly and contentious. How dare they insinuate that her mother was a... a soiled dove! Just because she didn't know per se what her mother did for a living, didn't mean she did... that...

Rose was hunched in an uncomfortable wooden chair in the police station foyer when a large woman with a very fake smile approached her. "Hello, dearie. I'm Ms Potts from the Manchester Industrial School for Girls, over on Northenden Road? They're having a bit of trouble tracking down your father... so you'll be staying with us for a tad. Won't that be fun?"

The woman's syrupy tone and horrid smile made Rose sick, she had heard about what went on in these so called Industrial Schools, and she'd be ... she could think it if she wanted to, she was entitled ... she'd be _damned_ if she spent longer than necessary there. If this mysterious father figure didn't come for her soon, she'd just up and leave. She was 17 after all, and they only put delinquents in reform school at her age...

She narrowed her eyes at the woman. "I haven't done anything wrong. What's going on here?"

Ms. Potts' lost the syrupy tone and returned Rose's glare full force. "Enough of _that_ tone, missy. You'll do as you're told and not ask questions." Rose nearly vibrated with anger. Never in her entire life had she been spoken to in such a manner. Her mother had believed in a free schooling attitude, letting Rose learn and grow organically. There had been few rules and fewer punishments in their household, and Rose had had enough. 

She drew herself up to her full five feet four inches, once more wishing that she had gotten a little height from her father, whom her mother assured her was a big, strapping man. "I've been accepted into the Royal Academy of Dancing, I don't need this absentee father _or_ you're shoddy children's prison. I'm leaving."

An iron grip closed over her upper arm, a uniformed police officer at her side, his face stern. "Now now, lassie, let's not cus a rumpus, alright? Why don't I escort you and this lovely lady where you're going and we'll try to get things settled finding your father."

Rose struggled, but the officers grip was implacable. She wanted more than anything to throw a tantrum. To bite his hand, to slap that horrid female's face, but that wouldn't change her scenario. Masking her rage with false docility she allowed herself to be escorted to the reform school, but she was already plotting her escape.  
  



	2. Father Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slade arrives to collect his daughter

The female administrator clearly did not want to allow Mr. Wilson to venture further into the building than her office, but since he simply ignored her simpering and strode of down the hallway she could do nothing but follow. Honestly, part of her was glad he was here to collect that  _particular_ young woman. She was trouble of the worst kind, and nothing the staff did seemed to straighten her out. He had just arrived at such an unfortunate time...

The door swung open forcefully, the full presence of the man taking a moment to settle into the room, enough for a very clear picture of the situation to register. The administrator wrung her hands in agitation. The tableau before them was ... unfortunate.

A large, red faced woman had her back to them, her arm falling repeatedly, bringing a thick cane down on the huddled body of some unfortunate miscreant. The sheer bulk of the female blocked the girl from sight, but the administrator had a sickening feeling she knew who it was. "Ms Potts!" She called out weakly.

The so-called Ms Potts was so engrossed in doling out her punishment, the administrator had to call out again before the heaving shoulders ceased, and the beefy 'lady' turned to examine them, her face redder than usual. There was a bruise beginning to form on the large female's cheek, and a dabble of blood indicating that her lip had been split.

"Madame!" The florid creature huffed, her voice having a strident quality, akin to that of the proverbial fishwife, and her volume increasing as she continued to speak. "This filthy trollop dared strike me! In the face! With a closed fist! I demand that she be removed from our premises and returned to the gaol from whence she came! She's no better than that mother of hers and is influencing the other girls to insubordination."

Meanwhile, the girl had regained her feet, straightening her cheap pinafore with a quiet dignity. Marks of the cane covered most of her exposed skin, the variety in colours proving that this had not been the first time the heavy-handed matron had lost her temper. The worst of the marks, however, was a brilliantly red hand print marring most of the girl's left cheek. Surprisingly, the girl spoke, interrupting the screeching harridan mid-tirade.

"Potts, you dare call my Mama a whore one more time, I swear to God Almighty that I will find a way to halt your lying tongue."

The administrator gasped, shocked at the girl's horrible and forward speech. Her eyes went straight to the military looking gentleman whom had muscled his way in to their sanctuary. Surely, surely hearing the terrible words pouring out of the spiteful mouth of the girl he had come here to see would make him far less inclined to take her off their hands.

"Young lady!" The administrator admonished in her most officious tone. "Such language is not permitted here. You will apologize to Ms Potts for threatening her, and for striking her, and you will think on what a suitable punishment for your actions will be, since the cane seems to have failed to curb your temper."

Rose's face went dark and mutinous, her naturally cherubic features taking on a rather terrible cast as she stubbornly glared daggers at the two women, ignoring the gentleman who had entered with Madame entirely. "Shan't"

The administrator woman gasped, shooting another alarmed look at the gentleman. "Ms Potts, perhaps you should remove young Miss Rose here from the room."  
  



	3. A Tense Introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The opening salvos between an angry young woman and her father.

Slade watched on as he entered the room, an arced brow raising over his good eye as he saw the rather large woman rain down strike after strike upon the girl that he had been searching for for so long. A neutral look settled upon his face, a mask in and of itself, silently examining the situation as if it were simply another job. His interest was not piqued visibly, however, until the ungodly large woman turned, thick accent spewing hate and anger at the scar left on her cheek. Internally, an immense feeling of wicked amusement spread throughout the Father's being as he watched his long lost daughter not only stand up to, but mentally best her tormentor. She had not the wits nor strength to overpower the woman, not yet, but she had the determination and spirit to outlast her, and the fire, raw as it might be, to level her anger upon her. Slade's eyes never lifted from her, the barest hint of a tiny pull at the end of his lips appearing at the small 'Shan't' that escaped her, but that quickly disappeared at the staff's sniveling. 

"Perhaps, instead, you leave me alone with my daughter, for the time being?" 

As Slade's voice filled the room, stern and authoritarian, Rose finally turned her gaze to the man who claimed to be her father. Everything about him raised her hackles, from his quietly commanding tones to his dominant posture. Still a small, vindictive smirk crossed her lips as he cut off the women who had continuously made her life miserable since she had arrived in this hellish place. He dismissed the abusive, nagging biddies as if they were nothing, a shot of vindication ran through her. Finally, the two bewildered women left the room, leaving Slade, for the first time in his life, alone with his daughter. 

The silence grew heavy between father and daughter as Rose picked herself up, her gaze hostile upon him as she righted herself. He was a handsome man, she supposed, though all of her mother's gentlemen friends were. His frame was broad and muscular, but there was an air of roughness, of barely contained violence that even his fine suit couldn't disguise.

It was an odd circumstance. Truly, he did not know how to react. There was the smallest of odd turnings in his gut at the thought, and the sight of her bruised and bloodied upon the floor, but it was vastly outweighed by his will, and the thoughts and plans he had for her going forward. So, after a minutes silence, Slade reached to the corner of the room and took hold of a table, placing it between them, then two chairs, and placed on either side. Curiousity briefly flitted across her face as he moved the table and chairs. But as he passed by her, Rose's posture immediately went defensive. She didn't move to assist him, but she didn't flinch away either. He gestured for her to take the seat facing him, but she simply crossed her arms, her face alive with dislike and tempered with a wary distrust. She tilted her chin up slightly, refusing to give up her position. 

"You've much heart, Rose. I've seen men twice your age wither and die under that kind of pressure." He said this matter-of-factly, in a low, straight voice. Settling forward, he continued. "I'm certain you've many questions. Some, I can answer now, others will have to wait. Eventually, I will be able to share all I know and all I own with you, but first, you must earn it." She likely wouldn't be a fan of him by the end of this conversation, but he knew what was necessary, and he also knew he could win that loyalty. After all, that the inevitable goal, her destiny as it stood, just out of her reach.

When Slade spoke again, she made a big show of feigning indifference, studying her newest set of cane marks, comparing them against her older set. As he finished his piece, a frown settled between her brows, and she full-out glared at him. Her voice dripped with scorn, challenging him with her forced flippancy.

"Listen close, Guv, as obliged as I _clearly_ am for your running interference with the old harpies, it wasn't necessary. I can handle my own business. In a month that Royal Academy of Dancing starts their new school year, and I intend to be there. Sorry if you turned up here out of the blue with other plans for _my_ bleeding life." She was building momentum, pleased with how she hadn't stumbled over the British invective. Rose tossed her hair over her shoulder, her eyes traveling over the man as if he was a particularly stupid and offensive animal. "See, I already have a plan, one that I've already put a lot of work into _earning_ since you seem so keen on such things, so please, _pardon me_ if your offer doesn't come down as appealing."

Gracefully she moves closer, a dancer's fluidity in her every step as she placed her hands on the table across from him, still eschewing the chair. A flare of rage glittered in her eyes as she continued her harsh diatribe. "Nice to finally meet you, put a face in the empty memory box all neat-like, and all that rot, but mayhap we'll just chalk this one up for 'too little, too late' and call it a day, eh mate?" She smiled at him then, a bitter little shadow of the expression that didn't even affect the coldness in her bright blue eyes.


	4. An Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slade tries to be reasonable.

Slade did not move, nor did he let on any form of reaction to what could only be described as Rose's tantrum. A rightfully earned tantrum, stemming from unneeded beatings, the loss of the only family she knew, and the sudden appearance of a Father she likely thought wanted nothing to do with her before this. But her rage, her fearsome anger, her utter contempt for the life surrounding her impressed him. These were the signs of his influence he had almost not expected to be there, to have been soothed out of her... or, perhaps, they were raw emotions. New. The death of her Mother had certainly taken a toll on her. Either way, she seemed to have a future planned out for herself, and that was the only true hint of contempt he himself felt for her dialogue. The idea of one of his bloodline living out her life as a professional dancer was just short of sickening, but this he reigned in too. She was in a delicate state now, and this little dream of hers could be used to his advantage... not to mention, he knew just enough about dance to know that it, like him, was a brutal teacher. Shifting just barely in his seat when she'd finally finished speaking, he leveled a neutral, unaffected, emotionless glare on her.

"It seems you've put much thought into this." He began, carefully keeping his voice thin, hollow, without even a hint of emotion. "Then, perhaps you can explain how you intend to pay for all of this? You, still not of legal age to enter a university without the consent of a parental guardian? Perhaps you could trick the system, certainly. Find a job under the table, with someone on the know. But that would cut into your time at this school of yours, and endanger your scholarship. Even if you waited out until you were released from the system here, you'd still be thrown out into the street, penniless, when that time came. Even if you manage to somehow pay for your lodgings, you'd be kicked out on holidays and during summer vacation, with no home to call your own. Perhaps you could find a place to stay, but you know that friends in this world are hardly trustworthy enough to promise you a home for longer than they might deem you worthy to stay, and paying for an apartment on top of all of this debt based off of simply paying for the essentials in life will, assuredly, stunt your education."

Rose's knuckles went white against the tabletop as Slade started speaking. He bombarded her with an unrelenting barrage of questions about the logistics of her situation - questions she clearly had no answer to. Her first instinct was to dismiss them out of hand, but her Mama hadn't raised a stupid child. Anyone looking could see in her eyes that she was filing the questions away mentally based on whether or not she had a good answer for them. Still, they seemed to fuel her anger further, until she pushed away from the table, stalking around the room like a tiny, caged lion. The table squealed against the linoleum floor, sliding towards Slade, a clear indication that despite her small stature, the petite dancer was stronger than she looked. Maintaining eye contact, he sat forward, his eyes cold as he crossed his arms over the table, and settled into a slight forward lean. If these were questions she could answer, matter-of-factly, then he would be impressed, but somehow he doubted she had even thought that far ahead, as very few youths tended to do. He remained silent for a few brief moments, before finally raising a brow and holding up a hand as she made to say something.

"I've no intention of taking away your schooling. I did not come here to offer you some form of familial father you never had... I wasn't there, and that I can not make up for." At this, he finally let the smallest amount of emotion escape him into his words. The emotion was true and real, but it was baited, honeyed words. Half-truths sometimes permeated more strongly than compete truths, so allowing a small, controlled level of weakness softened his stance. He did not, however, allow that small hint of weakness to remain past that statement, though his eye did soften ever so slightly as he continued.  
"I've come here to offer you a place in which you can earn the future you so truly wish in an honest way. I would take you in, but it wouldn't be an easy life. I would pay for your schooling and your life there, but you would pay me back in working with me, part-time. I ask not for fealty and offer no pity, but instead open the door from one hard life, to one far more fulfilling. Take that however you might."

A nasty little smirk crossed her face, but she paused in her pacing to turn and gaze out the dingy window while she marshaled her expression. When she began speaking her voice was louder, furious. "Maybe I haven't been schooled much in the traditional sense, Mama being the free-spirited creature that she was, but here's a few things that I do know, _Guv_. I know that nobs like you don't never offer a deal that ain't kilted in their own favour, and I know my Mama musta had one helluva good reason to up and dash, leaving you behind. Raising me on her own weren't no picnic, and clearly you're pretty plush if you're suit's any example. _So_ ," She turned towards him, an accusatory finger pointed at him as she stalked back towards where he was sitting, until she was right in his face. In comparison to the woman from before, Rose's voice got quieter the angrier she went, dropping until it was little more than an aggressive whisper. "So, even if you are who you say you are, and living here believe you me there have been more than a few 'daddies' who done come to pick up some of the older girls that clearly had no true connections to them of the familial kind, I'll be needing me some right solid proof. I still got myself to thinking, particular with all this, that you ain't nothing but a pile of more trouble."

Her cheeks flushed red with indignation, and her entire frame trembled with her emotions. "So mayhap my best option is to stick with the devil I know, call up one or two of Mama's gentlemen friends that always done good by me and work out my bleeding deal with one of them, neh?" With that the irate young woman pivoted away, stalking for the door. She said her piece, and now she was intent on walking away.


	5. A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first meeting ends.

Slade kept a carefully neutral face, letting only a touch of sadness escape, knowing that any other move her would only further enrage the teenager. Internally, however, he managed to keep that sadness in check. It was a weakness, and he kept it caged like any other weakness of the mind, body, or soul. Instead, he focused on his estranged daughters ferocity, and her strength. Indeed, it took quite the substantial amount of energy to suppress the smirk that showed when she'd pushed the table his way, and he'd been forced to stop it just short of his stomach. Her strength merely needed the finesse she'd had from said dancing to be perfected. 

Waiting for her to finish, his mix of a forced neutral and sad expression met hers, and he simply remained silent in the face of her accusatory finger. She was an intelligent dame, he had to give it to her. As intelligent as her mother ever had been, and that was an incredible compliment from a man who both respected and feared the woman. When that finger lowered, however, she made her attempt to dash from the room, and he made no motion to stop her. Instead, he cleared his throat, and took out his wallet, not turning to her immediately. 

"I've no intention of changing your mind on whatever your Mother might have said of me, because frankly, quite a few of those things very well may be true." He said, his voice low, and for the first time, almost human, as a sense of almost completely genuine sadness, but let off the feeling that he wanted to be straight with her... which, to a certain extent he did. "But there's still much you don't know... things kept from you, for your protection... things about me... that you've a right to know."  
Pulling three pictures from his wallet that were bent in half, black and white, and almost yellow from time, he placed them on the table. Two were from a distance and hardly noticeable, as Slade didn't have many pictures at all, let alone with her. The one on top, and only one that seemed framed to only include the two of them in it, showed Lilian Worth very clearly pregnant. Dropping a card with his address on it, and clearing his throat, Slade turned toward the door where his estranged daughter stood, ready to leave. His voice then returned to normal, though it remained low, soft, or as soft as his voice possibly could get. "But, that is your decision." 

Rose didn't want to stop, she was making a dramatic exit, but there was something about his voice that halted her, hand barely reaching for the door handle. She half turned her face to look at him, but her eyes couldn't pull past the photos. They hadn't let her return to her home to gather any of her things, none of her clothes, her dancing shoes, not even a photo of her mother, whom she hadn't seen since the morning before the accident. If the man could only have produced one item in the entire world to catch her attention, he had played his cards well. 

He motioned toward the table, then headed for the door himself, clearly making his way out of the room. "You do what you must. Live with the devil you know. It's not a bad idea to live by... but if you do wish to attend that school, or try this first meeting again... my information is there." Carefully, and gently, taking Rose's arm and sliding her aside, he took the door handle in hand and began his own exit. Her eyes followed those yellowing pieces of paper like they were the only glass of water in a desert. She didn't shrink away when he approached her, she was far too bold for that, but she did flinch when he touched her arm, her reaction more severe for all his gentleness than it would have been had he been violent or aggressive. Looking back, he left his parting offer. "If you do wish to follow..escape this place. I'm not far. Until then, those are yours to do with as you please." And with that, he pushed his way out the door.

As he paused at the door to speak again she moved towards the table, all the rage draining out of her. She barely registered his voice as she reached out a trembling hand, tracing the curve of her mother's face on the picture. A small hitch caught in her voice, for after all, she was little more than a young girl whose entire world had been shattered. "She looks so happy here.... They keep telling me she was a prostitute... But she looks so happy..." 

It was as if the two conditions could never be linked in her mind, and truthfully, they did seem to be disparate life models. She carefully lifted the pictures, treating them as if they were the most fragile and precious things in all of creation. There was little doubt in her mind now that he was indeed the man who had fathered her, but she didn't even turn to see if he was still there, in fact, her turbulent emotions dearly hoped that he was not. No one other than her mother had ever witnessed her pain or weakness. _Never let them see you cry_  had been Mama's mantra, and she had ingrained it in Rose's mind from a young age. Cry all you want when you were home, safe and alone, but out there you be happy or you be mad, those are the emotions of a confident woman. She dropped lightly into the chair, even her grief not detracting from the natural grace that years upon years had instilled down to the very marrow of her bones. Silently, the tears she had not been permitted to shed trailed down her cheeks. Just as she took her beating earlier in silence, so too did her emotional trauma leave her without a voice, only the slight shaking in her shoulders revealing that there was more to the tableau than a girl sitting. She laid the images flat, fingers crossing over her mother's image again and again, as if memorizing her.

A broken little whisper escaped her lips, the merest hint of a sob "Oh Mama...."


	6. Alternative Options

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose looks for another way.

To say Rose was frustrated would be a severe understatement. Three times in the last _day_ she had been reprimanded for destruction of property by the deplorable Ms. Potts, and if that foul creature touched her with the cane once more, the pale haired girl could not be held responsible for her actions. She was champing at the bit, lashing out at everything and everyone around her as the disappointments steadily mounted. When she was staring into her father's scarred face, the plan had seemed so simple, so brilliant, and yet not one week later here she was, staring at a long dark hall full of failure. She bit out a curse, kicking the small dresser that held her things, hearing the cheap plywood frame crack at the abuse. She was tired of dodging around Madame and Ms Potts, she was tired of unanswered messages and slammed doors. She was tired of _no_. Some of the gentleman she had called upon had been polite, but most had been abrupt. Several had been simply unavailable. Rose felt the mounting discouragement of someone who was tired of throwing themselves against a brick wall, but her Mama hadn't raised a quitter.

She had saved her best shot for last, just because she wanted a safety net. The trick was getting to him. Of course, if for some unimaginable reason this last gentleman turned her down, she could always consider her father's offer, but she wasn't that desperate yet. Eddy de Rothschild had always been her favourite of mother's callers, treating her with gentle affection, his boundless good humour able to shake even Rose's formidable moodiness loose. How many times had she secretly wished that Rothschild had been her real father? Enough that she had once broached the subject to her mother. Rose would never forget the look of sadness that gripped Mama, before the stern lecture about feminist autonomy was trotted out again. Still, that pain on her mother's face had haunted Rose for days, and she'd never brought up the subject again.

Shaking her head to break that train of thought, Rose dressed herself in the best fitting of the blue cotton pinafores she had been provided upon being placed within the Industrial Home. It wasn't a flattering garment, but it was the best she had and a girl learned to make do. Carefully she brushed her hair, pleating it in twin braids, Rothschild had once said he liked it best that way, that it made her look young and carefree. Finally prepared she moved through the halls of the reform school dormitory as if she had no goal in mind. Knocking into a taller, yellow haired girl, she passed the rough little number a half pack of cigarettes underhanded. The blonde stifled a grin, giving Rose a shove. "Oi! Wotcher bint!" Rose puffed up her chest and growled at the girl. "Watch yourself, /Cassie/, else someone musses up that pretty face of your'n!" Rose gave the other girl a dark glare and continued on in the opposite direction.

A few moments later, while she was idling by the rear entrance of the building, an unholy racket sounded from upstairs. Shouting and the loud crash of furniture was interrupted by a piercing shriek, and then feet on the stairs. A small dark haired girl shouted from the bottom step. "Madame! Ms Potts! Cassie's killing Amy, her is! Come quick!" The two harridans who had been eyeing Rose suspiciously took off up the stairs at breakneck speeds.

Young Ms Wilson allowed herself a triumphant smirk before ducking out the back door. Cursing the backwards nature of bloody Manchester she hiked over to the turnpike, purchasing a train ticket to London. As the scenery passed, she felt a bubble of hope rising within her. Surely Rothschild wouldn't turn her away. Perhaps her hope was more muted than it had been at the beginning of the week, but she really felt this was her best shot at achieving her dreams. Four hours later she was escorted into the lavish, personal study of Edmund Leopold de Rothschild.

Seeing the man seated behind his desk Rose bounded across the room to greet him warmly, moving around the firm wooden structure to buss his cheek in affection. A shadow of guilt tinged with regret flashed across his face as he brushed Rose aside, startling the girl. He had never been brusque with her before. She made as if to speak and he held up a hand, silencing her. "Dearest Rose, I know what you were hoping for, coming here today, and as much as I loathe disappointing you, I simply cannot do this thing for you." His eyes flickered about nervously, causing Rose to frown. She had not anticipated receiving another "No", not from he who had been so generous to her previously. She reached out a hand to him in supplication, but he stood abruptly, pushing away as if her touch was poison. "No, Rose, I owed you the courtesy of declining to your face, but you will simply have to seek other options."

Ruthlessly she crushed the hurt trying to well up inside her. _Never let them see you cry_. Her voice went hard and cold, all her defenses slamming into place. "I see. Now that my mother isn't around to grant you her attentions, there's no further need to cozen up to the daughter. Thank you, Sir, for reminding me that the world is a calculating place. Good day." Pivoting abruptly she stormed out of the room, slamming the big door behind her. The fury of her exit echoed through Rothschild's large home.

At the echo of his front door closing, the man slumped, defeated, into his chair. He sighed, opening the top drawer of his desk to pull out a framed photo. Rose and her mother were laughing on the beach, both looking back at him. His voice, rich with regret echoed in the now-empty study. He kissed Lillian's image through the glass. "Lillian my sweet, I am sorry. I am such a coward."

By the time Rose returned to the Industrial Home, she had been gone almost an entire day. Madame and Ms Potts were waiting for her, faces stern, the hated cane prominently displayed between them. The disappointment of the day combined with the boredom of the train ride home accompanied only by her own dark thoughts had brewed a fearsome storm of rage within Rose. After everything else she had been through, these two haranguing ninnies thought they were going to _punish_ her?

Drawing herself up to her full height, shoulders rigid, Rose stalked up to the two women. Surprise on her side, she snatched the wooden cane from between them, taking it and snapping it loudly across her knees. The implement of abuse snapped in half so hard that splinters flew. Even those two horrible women flinched at the force of her blow, though she showed no sign of how it pained her. _Give them nothing to hang you with_. She lanced each of them with eyes full of hatred, her voice holding not even a quiver.

"I'm leaving, and if either of you bleeding villains try to stop me, I swear to God that the unholy Hell that I will unleash upon the pair of you will make my time under your care look like the veriest idyll, do you understand?" The administrators, unused to being addressed in such imperious tones, quailed, each consider how closely this demon child resembled her father in both tone and demeanor in the moment. Neither doubted her willingness to follow through with that threat.

Still, Madame managed to stammer out a protest. "B-but the police! They placed you in our care!"

Rose zeroed in on the woman, her lip curling in disdain. "My time under your oh-so-tender custody was legally complete when a living biological parent surfaced. Ever since you have been collecting state funds for my upkeep under false pretenses. I am not a fool, Madame, do try not to prove yourself one." Thoroughly set down the woman fell back in defeat.

With a self-satisfied flounce, Rose breezed by the pair, up to her shared room to collect her few material belongings. Taking the small bundle, her mother's picture safely tucked in the centre. She left the building for what she was determined was the last time. She had exhausted all other avenues, and the only option left to her if she wanted to achieve her dreams of becoming a Prima Ballerina seemed to rest in the hands of a man she didn't know the first thing about, besides his name, address, and relation to her. She firmed her jaw, hand clenching the address card he had given her, and unbraided her hair, letting it flow loose and free about her.

Tucking a lit cigarette into her mouth, she had no idea how much she looked like a pale-haired version of her young mother. Putting on her most confrontational face, she raised a hand and tapped sharply on the rather unassuming door her father's address had led her to. A quiver of concern tried to shoot through her, but she tamped it down mercilessly. After all, even if he'd changed his mind, she was becoming quite accustomed to rejection lately.


	7. Inside A Father's Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slade considers things in regards to his daughter.

The initial meeting with his long lost daughter had gone as nearly to plan as he could have possibly expected. Slade had learned, in his years as a mercenary and a soldier, that it's incredibly, incredibly rare for anything to go exactly as planned, especially when you're someone who overthinks every detail to be ready for any possible specific scenario. Something as simple as a gust of wind, or an upset bowl could separate him from his target, or take away his chance to finish his job... and those were things he did for money. 

This was his daughter, squirreled away from him for so many years, and he would have nothing if not her abidance and inclusion in the family business. He had been more than impressed with how much of his inner rage had managed to survive the seventeen years she had lived with her Mother, who, bless her heart, just did not understand what the world was truly like, especially for a Wilson. The girl would have to be steeled in order to survive what this world would throw at her... and no-one but him could give her that. 

It had been a relatively simple matter to silently assure none of Lillian Worth's relations or male friends thought of adopting Rose until she could garner her place within this college she seemed so interested in. Many had simply turned away at the mention that her Father was in the scenario, but quite a few were required to have their palms greased, which was money Slade considered an investment into the future of his family line. One, however, had stood strong against manipulation and greed, and had been forced to be threatened out of his stance. Dirty business, that had been, but it had been required. Anyone who was willing to do that much for Rose without preparing her for the world would, inevitably, coddle her into her own early grave. 

That would not happen, not to Rose. His daughter would be a survivor. A fighter.

Though Slade had brought Wintergreen over to England when he had found out he'd be spending a week or two in his home there, he insisted that the man take the day that Slade had suspected Rose would arrive on off. It wouldn't do to have anyone but him answer the door when she arrived. The dimly lit shack had little in the way of amenities, and the lighting was very dull, but it would do. Rose could make whatever she liked of her room, and Slade didn't need much, not here. This one story expensive flat outside of town was meant for one thing, and one thing only, and that was preparing Rose Wilson for her place at her Father's side... and for that, he had enough woodlands for the preparation, proper. 

When the knock finally came, Slade was the one at the door, his face a careful neutral as he came face to face with an assuredly heart-broken Rose. A small, phantom twinge of distant, nearly dead guilt wracked through his stomach, but he was so disconnected at this point that such things didn't slow him down. If it had, it would have been the cause of his death three dozen times over. Looking up and opening the door fully to Rose, he stepped aside.

"Come in. I'm sure you've got to be hungry. This isn't an easy place to find." He spoke in a low voice, careful. And so it began.


	8. Careful Negotiations

Rose looked up at her father as he opened the door, trying to get a feel for the space behind him as he did so. She was momentarily distracted though, it was hard to get over just how plenty rugged the man was. Imagining her tiny mother beside this man just confused her, so she shook the thought free from her head, taking the cigarette from her lips and blowing a long stream of smoke before returning her eyes to his face, her mask of indifference back in place, her voice already hostile. She may have come here, but she did not trust this man. Not after every person in her life whom she had thought trustworthy had turned her down. Rothschild's dismissal in particular had struck her hard, shaken that core of hope her Mama had worked so hard to instill in her. 

"I'm not hungry, and I'm not coming in until you explain _exactly_ what you're expecting from me. I've had a long bloody week with this bleeding trip for biscuits, and I don't know you from Adam, you hear me? I'm sure you're aces and all, but even if I am beat, I don't want to land myself stuck with some grifter. All I wanted was to dance, and I ain't forgot your baloney about earning shite..." she paused, relishing the cuss word as it rolled off her tongue, "So let's eighty-six the false paternal good will and get down to brass tacks, shall we, Guv?"

She canted her head to the side to see him better, refusing to outright look up at the tall man. She had questions, but wouldn't have admitted to her curiosity about him under torture at the moment. Best to keep her defenses high. Her knuckles went white where they clutched her bundle of cheap, state-issued uniforms, the only real sign of her tension. She tucked the cigarette back into her mouth, taking a dancer's half step backwards, keeping herself just a touch outside of easy reach. Her instincts were screaming danger at her, but then again before he came to see her at the Industrial Home she'd never been alone in a room with a strange man before... or any man for that matter. She chalked the ridiculous churning in her stomach up to that, puffing nicotine into her bloodstream to settle herself down.

As the girl gave him a taste of what was on her mind, Slade merely pulled out and lit his own cigar, leaning against the doorway and silently listening, and occasionally taking a puff. He owed her the right to her anger, even if he would not, nor could, explain or defend the actions that had gotten him to this point. They were necessary to even come close to where they stood today. Nevertheless, for his own machinations he had to accept a certain amount of spite, and this was exactly that. His face remained hidden behind a mask of neutrality, the original happiness he'd allowed to show fading away in the face of the pup's anger. Once she had finally finished, however, he did not speak immediately, but instead pulled his cigar from his mouth and tapped away the ash, his voice soft and carefully avoidant.

"You've my anger.. I had hoped that mightn't be passed on, with me absent." Silently, he shook his head. It would have been simpler if Rose didn't show that anger, or the signs of her Father's line of work. Perhaps she might have avoided this life altogether... but her Mother's death had changed all of that, and she wouldn't be able to go back... never truly. Sadness edging back into his voice, he stood up and crossed his arms. "Beyond wanting to offer you a home beyond that which you'd been shown, I did wish for more. You are correct in your assumption. I am not simply doing this out of the kindness of my heart." With a grunt, he took another puff of his cigar, before continuing. Kindness was not something that still lived in what was left of his heart, even if sights and signs of it sometimes escaped. 

"You've been through much in the last few weeks, Rose. You've an anger, a rightful one, that cannot be satiated, and you've no way to let it out. That is what I offer... what I ask. The chance to use that anger toward something that will help you, instead of destroy you from the inside out." As he spoke, his voice became more hushed, as if it took effort to level with her, which brought about a certain amount of sincerity to his attempts at speaking, even if the result was gruff at its core. "I ask of you to spend your weekends with me, training. To put that anger toward the world into perspective, and use it to your own ends. To control it, rather than let it control you. To train you, in mind, body and spirit." Removing his cigar from his mouth, he leveled his gaze squarely on Rose. "I ask this of you because I know what it is like to lose such love in your life, and what happens if you don't learn to control that anger. If you give me that, I can help you."

He let his gaze linger a moment so she could see the pleading request of an old man who had seen so much over the years fully on his face.... but within a moment, it was gone, his head turned away. Tapping the cigar against the brick wall, he waved his other hand. "And, of course, during the week you may go to your dance school. I've no wish to take that away from you." He replied, in one of a thousand half-truths he would have to use in order to stay one step ahead of a child who was already proving to be near his equal in wits, at least.


	9. Hints of Threat

Rose almost walked away the moment the man started speaking. She had no one's anger but her own, and it was well earned. She bit her tongue, not interrupting though everything in her tumbled against the edges of her restraint. Agitated, she chuffed on her cigarette, refusing to allow the usually camaraderie that formed when people smoked together to fall over her. Despite all of this, his gruff voice was chipping away at her hard edges, the cruelties of the world too new to her for her defenses to be truly air tight.

There was a calmness about this man who was her father, a soothing steadiness that reminded her a lot of her mother. A stillness at his centre, something that Rose had never quite managed, despite Mama's teasing. Occasionally an emotion would ring true in his speech, shooting through Rose like a dart filled with poison, feeding that place inside her that desired hearth and home. Family and stability. She let her mind drift over the warm nights with her mother, brushing out each other's hair and discussing their day, showing Mama the newest dance move she had mastered.

He was offering her something different from that... but still it appealed to her inner hopes and dreams. He dangled the carrot of her fondest wish in front of her, the chance to be the dancer her mother always saw in her. She was free when she danced, her mind clear. There was no anger, no rage... no loneliness. She wanted it with the ferocity of a child that had had a mostly empty life. Still, she was not an idiot, nor was she truly a child anymore, and she noted her father was being _deliberately_  vague about what this training would entail.

The picture he painted wasn't perfect, he was far too clever for that, but it was still a little too good to be true - and from Rose's recent experience, anything that seemed too good to be true, usually was. Wasn't that what they were learning across the strait with the rumours about that fellow in Germany? She was hardly up to recent news, her focus constantly being practice, but occasionally she had overheard Rothschild and Mama discussing things in hushed voices.

She stubbed out her cigarette, offering her father a raised eyebrow. "If I agree, and that's a mite particular _if_ right now, my dancing comes first. I've already fallen behind and will have to work hard to be in top shape for when classes start." She crossed her arms across her chest, taking a step back. "And I'll be wanting a few more details about this mysterious _training_ you seem so keen on. You haven't really come anywhere close to explaining what that entails, which frankly makes my a tad antsy, Guv. I may not be the brightest mort, but I know when a bloke's being opaque all deliberate like."

Slade's forever present true mask of unnatural controlled emotion might have kept his expression neutral as he silently puffed on his cigar, but inwardly he smiled. He could see it in her eyes, she was coming around to this little idea of his that she had been so keen to say no too.

"Your education comes first, always. So dancing comes first. You will have your weeks to yourself to prepare and focus on your chosen path. All I ask of you is your weekends. " Taking his cigar out of his mouth and silently flicking it, he regarded his daughter with a raised brow, and allowed the smallest version of that repressed smile to appear, a smile fueled more by knowing he was close than anything sinister, beyond that fact in and of itself.

"And as for your training... it's something of a family business. A _private_ family business. I will explain everything inside." Stepping aside, he leaned backward against the side of the doorway, offering her room to enter. "If you are so willing. That is your choice to make."


	10. One Step Forward

In a way, this would be easier if he didn't sound so bleeding reasonable all the time. It was hard to convince yourself that a man was a psychotic, manipulative wanker when he never got angry, never lashed back. Everything she did, everything she said, he responded to as if she was being just as calm and rational as he was, and bugger if that didn't fash her twice as hard. She worried her lower lip between her teeth, taking a tentative step forward.

"I'm coming in cuz I'm a mite curious, this don't mean nuthin' like an agreement, Guv. This be a deal we're hashing out, blood or rot, we ain't family. Mama was my family, you're just some bloke who got your end away and scarpered. Read me?" With that last aggressive epistle, Rose stuck her little nose in the air and flounced in the door past the man. Despite the air of unconcern she desperately tried to portray, the bottom dropped out of her stomach as she crossed the threshold. It felt like, words to the rather or not, the second she stepped inside she had made a decision, for better or worse. _Chin up, little flower_. Her mother's voice was a comfort in her mind, and she found herself a solid piece of wall to put her back to, bright blue eyes flickering around her father's home, taking in the details... and the quickest exits.

"Well Guv, you got me inside, we gonna stare at each other all day or you gonna dish what all this bleeding secrecy is on about? You ain't a watchamacallit... a socialist or some rot?" He didn't look like a socialist, and she was pretty sure he was American, but hey, you never knew these days.

Smiling inwardly, Slade closed the door behind her and silently allowed her to speak her mind. That was a bit of something from her Mother that he wasn't sure would be a good thing in the long run, but it certainly did help him discern what kind of impression he was leaving on her; if she was open to his suggestions, and it did indeed seem so. If she'd been like he was for the majority of his life, he'd be staring into a silent, bottomless rage of a person, but that rage appearing on the outside gave him something to weigh his actions by.

"Come. I've much to show you." Walking past his daughter and deeper into the room with no real reaction to her words, he moved into the main room, which was very much a mirror of his office back in the States. A warm room with a comfortable couch and a nice rug, a shined wooden floor and a fireplace. Indeed, the only offsetting aspect was the various animals hung upon the walls, from hunts he'd long since forgotten and no longer cared about, but had once toiled in as a way of preventing him from falling... before he'd ever realized that this life wasn't him falling, but stepping up. Pulling on a coat-rack at the rear of the room, the back wall slid open slightly, and Slade made an immediate walk toward it.

"When I was your age, I was just arriving home from a Great War that I still didn't completely understand. I'd snuck away and joined the mass of Americans joining the front in France before the army arrived officially in the war, and by the time it was done, I was a changed man.. but, that was not my defining moment. " As he stepped inside, he invited her to follow, motioning to the multipurpose training facility inside. Looking very much like what the cartoons painted a Japanese dojo to appear as, the only anachronism was the gun range down the steps and under the yard; and the walls, which were an armory of weapons of varying origin.

"As I grew older, I searched for... different means of survival. Different reasons to survive, and found, as you have now, that the world is a cruel place, and we've not many to rely upon." Walking into the center of the room, he leveled his gaze upon her.   
"This is the 'training' I ask of you. A mere wish, from a Father who missed so much of his daughters life, to allow him to give her the protection from the cruelties of the world he has learned and instill it in her. What you do with that, that will be your decision."


	11. Two Steps Back

If she could say one thing for Slade Wilson, at least he listened when she spoke. The last while at the Industrial Home she had gotten used to people disregarding her completely, cutting her off or talking over her. It was a nice change, but she tried to quell that rise of positive feeling. How sad was her situation that the tiniest shred of human decency had her ready to roll over and offer her belly?

Once more as Slade passed her the girl stepped back out of arm's reach, but still she followed him as he moved deeper into the house, with only one slightly nervous glance back at the closed door. Still, she followed him further into this home he was offering to share with her, deeply curious as to this mysterious price the man kept alluding to. Her eyes flickered over the mounted trophies, a part of her wondering what it would have been like to grow up here. From her experience Big Game Hunting was the sport of the idle rich, and nothing about her father made Rose believe he did anything out of idleness.

When Slade revealed the secret door though, Rose couldn't stop a small impressed sound to escape her. She was, after all, a seventeen year old girl. Every one of the French novels she'd swiped from Mama had secret paths and doorways, and she was enamored. Mama always scolded her for reading those novels, but they were so full of hidden delights. The little girl inside her thrilled at the thought of a secret passageway, and she tripped excitedly behind Slade, listening to his tale of War, until the truth about what was before them was staring her in the face. Her eyes went wide, and she back-stepped right to the entrance. She took in the armory on the walls, the ominous equipment. The quiet intensity of Slade's voice rolled over her, sending a shiver of fear down her spine. 

At this moment, she realized she had never felt true fear before in her life. Her pulse was racing, her voice caught in her throat. She tried to convince herself that he used these things to hunt the trophies in the room previous, but his words ripped away that hope. No wonder her mother had taken Rose and fled. This man before her was something much darker, and much more dangerous, than some sheltered girl from the sad end of England was prepared to deal with. He might even be... a killer, and he clearly expected to mold her into whatever he was as well. How dare he? How dare he be so casual - as if he wanted to teach her Latin or accounting? Her hands came up defensively, tiny little fists, thumbs tucked under her fingers, held close to her chest. She tried to hide the quaver in her voice behind a good bit of bluster.

"Are you barmy, Guv? I don't know what kind of dodgy nonsense you've got going here, but this doesn't look all on the up and up to me. I don't know what skullduggery you're buggering about in, but this shite's not designed for a bit of 'how's your uncle'. This shite's for hurting people real bad, killing even..."

Terror skittered behind her eyes and she backed up another step, trying to calculate how far away the front door was, and if she could make it there without turning her back to Slade. Her eyes locked onto a particularly vicious looking blade just to the left of her father, her voice becoming more strained. 

"So I tells you what, Guv, I think p'raps I'll be just fine on my own, a gal can always make ends meet one way or another, and I swear to sinners I ain't gonna say boo about this bloody shite to nobody. So... it's been a treat meeting you and all, but I think I'll be leaving... The 'family business' seems a tad out of my league.."

Slade silently stared at his daughter as she was met with a world outside her own, and at first, she seemed more than receptive. There was a glow in her eyes and excitement in her voice that filled some small portion of his stomach with happiness... but that happiness was forced down and kindled out, for he knew that the more likely reaction would be fear and rage, or perhaps a bit of both. And, inevitably, he had been correct, as the weapons seemed to terrify and bewilder her, her face growing dark and her words stumbling in their presentation. 

Despite himself, a frown creased over what was still apparent of Slade's features as she recoiled in fear from him. He sympathized, as, more often than not, there was something within him as well that was terrified of his own existence, but all of these emotions and weaknesses were well-hidden under the visage of a man shaped by a world he had not been prepared for, experiments that would change him forever, and an eternal loss of both family and his own humanity. Now, his emotions where nothing but a bleeding effect, controlled by the cunning, cold mind of the man that hid behind masks, both metaphorically and physically.   
And yet, somehow, this sight broke through all of that in a glimmer of true sadness, if only for a moment. When it faded, however, Slade found himself rebounding. He did not give chase, nor did he yell or scream, but instead he listened, and continued. 

"You believe me a killer?" He asked, and though his mask had returned, he used some of that anguish in his voice, before clearing his throat and moving on. "Perhaps I am. You might be correct. But you misunderstand. I am not Jack the Ripper, or some crazed mad man... I'm an assassin, strictly working for government agencies, doing the only thing I know... the only thing I've ever been good at in my life." 

Now, Slade's words seemed to fall back into that hurt, using that unexpected and unwanted cut of emotion in his voice to attempt to plead, guiltily, a lie that she simply had to believe, or his plans would be all for naught. "I've no intention of making you a killer, or hurting you, Rose. Ever. I simply... I just want you to be safe. I just want to pass on what little legacy I have left of my own pathetic, lonely life, in a way that would protect you from the real, terrible people out there in the world. This 'family business' isn't me trying to make you a killer, but instead assuring you grow strong enough to do whatever you want with your life, and never become a victim... like I was." 

Slade's voice fell to a whisper halfway through, the emotion growing raw in his throat. He was surprised by how strong it was, and honestly terrified, but he used it as best he could for his own ends. His mind was still in control. Standing, shakily, he turned his back to Rose. "But I will not force you to do anything. If you wish to leave, you know where the door is. God knows I don't need to ruin another life." 

And with that, he closed the door into the training room and walked across the living room, toward the hall that lead to his sleeping quarters. Silently, he cursed himself for his barely kept emotion. It had forced him to approuch the situation differently than he would have liked... but, he still had hope. And in that hope hung a thousand lies that she would someday hate him for, should she stay... and that rip of emotion that he had to strangle down turned that into a guilt that made a small, forced down portion of him wish for Rose to walk out, leave... before she was ruined at his feet.


	12. Deal With A Devil

_You believe me a killer_  ... his gravelly voice resonated through her, and her little fists bunched tighter. How could he deny being a killer and then immediately claim that his _job_  was assassination. As if working for governments made it better. The real emotion in his voice made her want to believe, but still... Her voice shook, rife with emotion and terror. 

"Oi you daft todger, d'you really think going all mamby-pamby 'government' this n'that is really gonna convince me? In this day an' age? Governments all over are being right awful." She tried to stay strong, stay firm, but the raw emotion in his voice sucked her in, drew her deeper into the spell he was weaving. Not so much that when he stopped speaking she lost all sense of self-preservation. She still flinched away when he passed by. She talked a good game, but when it came down to it her main motivator was still mostly loss and fear. She watched, startled, as he walked away, moving further into the home. 

She stared after him, chewing her lip anxiously. It was a bad habit, but she was full of nervous ticks lately. Mama would reprimand her for chewing her lip if she was still alive. Tell her that she was ruining her good looks. She was lost, confused, angry... and the man that caused at least part of it was walking away from her. She didn't want to be on her own, didn't know how to deal with life out there, didn't want to do what gals did to get by these days. 

Skinny arms wrapped around her wiry frame and she leaned against the wall, slowly sliding down it. Her head came to rest on her knees and a small shaky sob escaped her lips. He had left the room, this wasn't like letting them see you cry. After the first small sound the tears flowed, dampening the knees of her pinafore. 

Rose didn't want any of this. She didn't want the strange, one-eyed father with the secret room full of weapons. She didn't want to choose between him and a life on the streets getting by. What she wanted was Mama to hold her in her arms. What she wanted was to wake up and find all this to be some terrible dream. If only Mama had been there when she came home with her acceptance letter... they had worked so hard and she'd never even known that it bore fruit.

Sooner than even she expected the tears ran out and she just shuddered against her own legs. She wasn't a fighter. She didn't want to be a fighter... but she was a survivor. She could probably do what her mother had done if it was absolutely necessary, but maybe... maybe this was better. She slowly stood up, righting herself as best she could, neatening her hair and brushing off her skirt. There was nothing she could do about the damp spots. 

Clearing her throat she lightly padded down the hallway Slade had gone through. Still in the hallway she paused, did she knock? Call out? She chewed her lip again, the copper taste of blood bursting over her tongue as she caught a ragged edge too hard. What a mess she must look, eyes and nose red from the tears and now her lip bloody from her own teeth. She simply stood alone in the hall, speaking quietly. Maybe he wasn't even listening.

"Look, I don't know if you're on the mackintosh brigade or mad as a bag of ferrets or what have you... but if you promise no killing... I don't want to kill someone. I can't. I'm a dancer not a ... but if all you want is for me to learn... to learn to defend myself... I can at least try."

Somewhere, deep down inside the heart of a man that had seen more death than any man rightfully should, there was a small kindled hope that lived inside the man's body that his daughter would not follow. As he entered his room and sat on the mat, for he did not offer himself the luxury of a bed, he silently sat, his raw emotions coming to bare, and suddenly dying in his throat. Something that isn't often said in mixed company that happens to a man when he's seen enough terrible things is a stagnant, blank reaction to bad news. Tears die far before they reach one's eye, anger fell behind a mask of indifference, death seemed to have no effect on one's face. It was a blank, trained stare of humanity slowly leaking from an individual thanks too seeing far too much for a fragile psyche to take. 

Now, if you amplify that to the point of someone that had committed those types of atrocities, that mask becomes something of a farce. It's a kept in-check reaction from a man that no longer knows how to feel... and yet, somewhere, deep down inside, he could still feel, vaguely, that whst he was doing was wrong. That small portion of Slade wanted to send Rose away, scream at her, scare her so that she might never come to see him again, so that she might never meet his enemies and never garner that deadened reaction to the world, so that she can never be cruelly manipulated by a Father who would use her as a tool to assure his life meant something, and nothing more. 

That small, distant light of emotion flickered, distant, elated, until the voice of his daughter could be heard in the hallway, pleading that there would be no killing, and that emotion, in that moment, died a swift death... and in it's place, a crueler emotion replaced it. That of the pleasure of manipulating someone to one's own needs. Standing, he walked out to meet his daughter, and at the door way, he gave a small smile, his face bending to his will less like an emotional reaction and more like a calculated movement of a puppet, and bent down on one knee. 

"I promise you, you will never have to kill. In fact, if I have my way, you will never even have to use these skills. This is simply for your own protection." And with that lie, Slade Wilson felt the last of his humanity slip into oblivion, replaced with a sick, cruel pleasure of a man who was no longer a man, but a monster.


	13. The Trap Closes

He brought himself down to her level, and Rose couldn't help but feel warmth spread through her chest. She was so starving for any sign of consideration, of care, that this small gesture was taking on monumental meaning in her mind. He didn't give the impression of being someone that met many people halfway. If he was willing to do so for her... Maybe there was a chance. If it had been even a few weeks previous, her first impulse would have been to embrace the man, but she was a fast learner, and her time in the Industrial home had made her cautious. She started to reach towards Slade, but instead clenched her fingers, tucking both her hands behind her back, eyes fixed accusingly on the damp places on her skirt. She weighed his words carefully, a very adult seriousness on her furrowed brows. 

"I ain't certain if yer a nob tha' keeps 'is word, Guv, but this has all gone t' pot an' I'm cream knackered." She sighed, realizing that conversing with the American would be much easier if she wasn't so Chavtastic. Still, she supposed they'd learn. Wary eyes raised up again to search the man's face. She attempted to return his small smile. 

"So... how d'we go about this, then? I do my thing, you do your thing, an' on the weekends we meet up for this trainin' you're so set upon?" She brushed the pale strands of white-blond hair from her eyes, narrowing them at the man who was planning on setting her world so off-kilter. 

"I'll be wantin' the dosh for my dance school up front afore I do anythin' to boot, I'll be buggered afore I give more then I'm gettin." That was one of Mama's rules too. _Men were nice, but always take care of you_.

Within seconds, that small light within Slade had faded into utter obscurity, replaced with a complete wash of self-amusement for his plan having worked. It was a greedy, loathsome feeling to have, but Slade's moral compass was so heavily askew that he could hardly tell the difference anymore. Finally, seeing his daughter smiling sent a pang of minor guilt through him, but again, he was so compromised that he could hardly tell what that pang was, just that it was there. Perhaps it was a fatherly attachment to his seed, and indeed, there was something somehow gratifying about having his own biological spawn with him that made him wonder why he had ever sent away her in the first place. Giving her a polite nod and maintaining the mask of a smile, he stood. 

"You will have anything you ask of me. The money for your housing and schooling is already put into a private account, in your name. Should you wish to live off campus, or in an apartment, I will of course supply the money." Another small webbing, a trap laid in for future use. For now, however, he truly did plan to allow her to go about her life as she might see fit, for several reasons, not the least of them being that it would bring in doubt his involvement in her life, personally, which should keep his enemies away, especially after setting up his time away. 

"Then, if you wouldn't mind, I would appreciate you staying with me on the weekends. Other than that, your schooling comes first." Giving the girl a firm nod and reaching down to carefully pat her on the shoulder, he made his way back toward his room. 

Money for school and a place to stay? That was... more than she expected. The girl's eyes narrowed slightly and she examined the man again. She might be grateful, she might be desperate for that paternal influence her life so often lacked, but even still... She shook her head, trying to shake the invasive thoughts away with the motion. No. This was her father. Maybe it was guilt for being absent so long, but she had to start somewhere. She couldn't let the experience at the industrial home make her into the kind of creature that saw underhanded schemes at every corner.

The pat on the shoulder though... that made her insides twist up in a very familiar way. She missed her mother, and the gesture, so much like one Mama would have made, almost set her to tears again. She sniffed once, tilting her head upwards. She would not break down like a baby over a small sign of affection, darnit!

"I'd like me own place off-campus if'n it's all apples ta yer, 'leastways til we know eachother. Weekends I can work, since we gotter learn someways an' it'll be pease porridge if'n I keep closer on hand when we're doin' your shite." She paused, took a deep breath. "An if'n ya don't mind, can I stay here til I find meself a place?"

"You are, of course, welcome to stay here. I've an extra bedroom." He said, as if it had already been assumed, before settling his eyes on her once more. "And... thank you. For giving me a chance." With that feigned emotion, he stepped back into his room, an odd mix of emotions he couldn't quite translate filling up his gullet from the nights events.


	14. Sleepless

Dawn was a long way off yet when Rose left the bed. She'd never been one for sleeping in unfamiliar places, and there was an itch in her blood that demanded attention. With the silence obtained by few outside of the dancer's studio, she made her light-footed progress through her father's home down to his secret training studio.   
  
Her quick mind was observant, even in times of stress, and she managed to access the entry with no issues. She missed her pointe shoes terribly, but until she could get new ones she would make do. Shredding several strips off the bottom of her dress, taking it to an almost indecent length, she tested the fabric's stiffness. Satisfied she wrapped the makeshift bandages around her arches and toes to assist in support. She stretched for nearly a full hour before she even began to consider dancing. It had been awhile since she'd practiced, and injuring herself due to impatience was not a mistake she was willing to make.   
  
Finally the familiar warmth and springiness spread through her muscles, proving she was ready. She began the opening steps of the dance at a quarter speed, holding each arabesque until she felt it at her very core. She was pleased to not that her limbs didn't quiver, her steadiness had not been negatively affected by the privations at the industrial home. Ever so slowly she sped up as she went through the motions. The steps became more and more intricate as she moved faster and faster, the only sound her own steady breathing, heated but not heavy, and the occasional scuff of her bandaged feet on the floor as she set down from a jeté. She pirouetted across the room, her face neutral and professional as she focused on executing each aspect perfectly.   
  
Rond de jamb, rond de jamb. Plié, plié. She cabriolled and moved across the room quickly, moving into a grand jeté. The music was all in her head, but anyone watching could almost feel the piece. Despite her time away, the graceful young woman was a match for even the grand Russian ballerinas. Every social grace she lacked melted away, and she truly inhabited the body of the Swan Princess. It was her favourite piece, and she exhuded serenity as she came to the end, holding the final arabesque penché until her muscles screamed for relief.   
  
Finally a small expression of satisfaction spread across her sweating face, and she allowed the looseness of exhaustion to ripple through her body as she lowered herself to sit on the floor. The world rushed back in as delicate fingers traced along her legs and feet, checking for injuries.   
  
The image of grace and beauty immediately fell away as a stream of foul curses escaped her lips. She'd broken the third toe on her left foot. Again. She hadn't even noticed in the thrill of the dance. Sighing she shrugged, re-wrapping it. It wasn't as if she hadn't danced on broken toes before, it hurt like the dickens but it never affected her performance. She wouldn't let it.


	15. Unresolved Tension

Time off was something an assassin could rarely afford, especially when burned by a government proper. Leaving the umbrella of the United States Black Ops had assuredly given Slade very little in the way of guaranteed cash, and thus the game became his only source of income. Luckily, Slade had been doing it for enough years at this point to both find himself off the blacklist for work from the allies, and to name prices that might be incredibly ludicrous to most other mercenaries.

The man that went by the code name of Deathstroke, however, was widely known as the best, and a fear that he might start working jobs for the Axis kept the Allies assuring he was appeased, so much so that he had managed to funnel his income into working out of Great Britain for as long as it took to assure Rose would be properly trained. For now the job consisted of nightly hunts for Nazi sympathizers, but in the coming weeks Deathstroke would find himself behind enemy lines in France, with only enough reprieve to come home for the weekends proper. War had assured Slade had more money than he might ever hold to his person, and that had given him his chance to take some time off.

After a rather full night's work of chasing down leads in London, searching for the blithering idiot who had helped the last Axis plane raid pick an industrial target, Deathstroke returned home with blood on his blades and a tired expression. The serum in his blood prevented him from tiring easily, but he did find himself rather out of sorts as he entered his small but luxurious home. As he approached the panel to his training area, Deathstroke quickly realized it had already been open. Opening and closing the door quietly, he squeezed himself to the wall and made his way downstairs... only to find Rose. Alone. Dancing. It was quite the spectacle, Slade had to admit. Her body moving so fluently and told such a story that even he, with his detached mind, could practically hear the music her movements seemed to play with. Taking off his mask, Slade settled himself just a few steps above where he could be seen, and watched. It was magnificent, he thought. Even his cold demeanor couldn't dismiss that. In fact, quite the opposite.

The moment Slade had found out his daughter was a dancer, he'd been happy. There were very few ways to learn how to stalk your prey without letting them know, and very little experiance with a blade that taught a person how to survive a fight proper, but those movements of the ballerina where a good start. Grace and elegance to match Slade's precision and grit. Tucking his helmet under his arm, Slade entered the room just as Rose began to curse, immediately noting the broken toe. "Impressive." He said simply, his voice even showing it's genuine nature. "Do you need help for the pain? I can assist." He spoke without stopping once he continued his stride, moving to his gear in order to start stripping himself of his heavy, bullet proof armor.

She froze, her entire body locking up, all the tenseness returning to her very core as her stranger of a father entered the room. For some reason the fact that she didn't know how long he had been watching disturbed her, but she furrowed her brow and pushed the concern from her face. She was going to be a professional dancer one day, she should be used to observation at this point. Running her long fingers along the toe she snapped it back into place and tied off the fabric strips, her voice stiff as she responded.

"No need for that, Guv. I'm hard-boiled as they come. If'n ye can't manage as is, ya ain't worth your salt." She turned slightly away from him, beginning her cool down stretches, but watching the man from the corner of her eye. She was pretty sure that was blood on his gear, and that raised all kinds of suspicions in Rose's little chest. She hadn't even known he wasn't in the building, and he'd been out doing what... killing people? Didn't the man ever sleep? She was already feeling tired. Between her poor sleep, her early morning and the strain of the dance her body needed some kind of recharge.

Still, the last thing she wanted to do was appear weak before this powerful, intimidating man who suddenly had a say in what happened in her life. She spread her legs out in a full split, placing her hands against the floor. Leaning forward she put her weight on her hands, slowly pushing her lower body into the air and straightening her legs until she was standing on her hands. She held herself aloft, stretched out for a full minute before slowly letting herself down. Satisfied that she was still as tough as they came she brushed herself off.

The silence grew thicker between them, and part of Rose wanted to fill it. With Mama the air had always been filled with lively chatter about some topic or another, and the young woman missed the sound. Still, Slade didn't seem the type to encourage speaking for the sake of noise, and what would she talk to him about? She doubted he knew the difference between a battement glissé and a battement fondu.

Running her hands through her sweat-soaked hair Rose shook off the urge to start up a conversation and headed for the door to the private training room. Clearly her lethal guardian had had a long night. She'd get cleaned up and maybe rummage through his kitchen for something to eat. She paused at the entrance for a moment, debating whether or not she should say anything to him. She hated being this unsure. Rose was a confident girl, but there was something about Slade that made her edgy.


	16. Olive Branches

"Wise words." Slade admitted, an air of approval shown on his face. Of course Rose couldn't see it, as he was still busy unstrapping armor from his body, but nonetheless he felt the need to speak approval at the attitude. It would server her well, and proved that she was much more akin to him that he'd likened. Pride was not an emotion Slade allowed himself to feel, beyond the pride of his work and his namesake that he'd carved a bloody oath through, but a small glimmer of it flared up at the slight image of her going through her routine, despite the pain. She was so like, yet unlike her Mother. With that thought suddenly in mind, Slade snapped his emotions down as if it were an awaiting misbehaving animal, and for the first time, Slade became aware of the silence.

Aware, however, did not make him want to break it. Focusing on hanging up his armor, now down to the clothes beneath, he took a towel and washed the small modules of blood from his chestplate and shoulderplates, before turning to find Rose awaiting in the wings. For a moment, Slade simply stared, his face the usual protective blankness he so often gave off. For some reason, he felt that she was lingering, as if questioning him, which largely was the way she'd been acting around him since he'd visited her in the orphanage. Looking down at the bloody towel in his hand, he gave his daughter a shrug.

"AWOL pilot, tipped off the Nazi's where the military's been keeping their staging facilities. Gave him money and transport in exchange for the bombing last month. I took him back to the police." He dropped the towel in the wash bin and turned away from her, before adding. "He's alive." It wouldn't hurt to tell her the truth. In fact, he'd likely scare her off if she simply found out he'd been killing that night, which, for once, he hadn't. That was by design, of course, but that was besides the point. Besides, somewhere deep inside, a weaker version of him that had no bearing on his current state of awareness somehow wanted her respect, in a different way than the logical Slade needed it.

"Will likely hang for Queen and country, though. You're very good." He added the last part quickly, without turning around, as if embarrassed to speak of it, but was forced to because he was so impressed, which there was more than a hint of truth too that.

She had never expected approval from the stern father figure, and it may have been slight in nature, but it warmed that place inside her that was still open, still seeking familial love. She may have seen more of the harsh nature of the world in the last few months than she ever expected to, but that didn't mean she would cut herself off from life completely. There were so many things she wanted to ask her father, so many things she was afraid to venture. There was a sense of gratitude within her when he revealed the tasks in which he had spent his evening. There was no need for the man to explain himself to her, and the thought that he offered this as an olive branch, a small consideration to their new found situation, there was a comfort in that.

She bit her lip, a hand running anxiously through her hair once more, the sweat beginning to dry leaving a patina of salt along her scalp. "Good is a relative term. I practice a lot, and that can compensate for any lack in natural ability I might display. I appreciate the compliment, though. And..." She paused, unsure if she was actually willing to venture an opinion here. In the end, she decided it was best. Meet the man half way. "I'm glad you weren't killing, and that you caught the man. He sounds like a pretty dreadful person."

A small smile crossed her face, she was trying harder to speak properly around her father, not wanting him to judge her for the low nature of her usual dialect. Around Mama the fact that she was lowborn and low class had rarely been a factor, but she wanted to impress this enigmatic figure that had ventured into her life. He was stoic, with an edge of barely contained ferocity that impressed a girl used to fighting for everything she wanted against an uncouth society.

"I'm gonna wash up, then maybe fix some brekkie, assuming you have the fixin's in the kitchen. You got any preferences? Mama taught me how to make Eggs Benedict." There. That would be her olive branch, that was where she would meet him half way. If he could attempt a regular conversation with her, the least she could do was attempt the same. She even offered him the smallest of smiles. There was still a lot of pain behind it, but the first flashes of hope shone in her eyes. If they could just reach some kind of understanding, maybe she could have a family again.


	17. Musing on Things Past

Lillian Worth had been a saint in her daughter's eyes. They never had much money, and their possessions were few and usually secondhand, but that hadn't mattered to the pale-haired young girl. What mattered was that Maman was always home. Always with her. Though she never spoke of Rose's father, the young girl wasn't really that interested. Maman was her world. So what if the 'respectable' folks chose to pass to the other side of the street rather than be greeted by the unwed mother and her precocious child? They had each other, and that was all Rose needed.

Homeschooling was common, particularly for the poor. It was on a bright day when Rose was nearly five, though, that her natural grace and love of dance was discovered. Lillian had just procured some much anticipated records for their phonograph, and the first strings of Swan Lake echoed in their tiny flat for the first time. Young Rose was immediately enraptured. Pirouetting around the room with bright eyes. After that, Maman had scrimped and saved and used every spare cent to provide her daughter with shoes and leotards and the finest dance lessons she could locate.

She may have been young, but she understood exactly what was being sacrificed so she could live out her dream. She worked harder than any girl had ever done to be the very best. Rose knew, even from that age, that she had to overcome class and the challenges of her birth, not just monetary hurdles to be permitted entrance to the prestigious field of the professional ballerina. Perhaps there were those that watched the graceful forms drift over the stage and thought that it was easy. Dancing your life away, but it wasn't.

Ballet required strength and skill, a precision of movement that few other jobs needed. It required long hours, not just of practice, but of exercise. It required a rigid discipline, adherence to a strict nutritional plan that had been an added financial burden on poor Maman. More than once she'd borrowed money from her gentlemen friends, and gone hungry herself as she supported Rose's dream. How could her daughter do anything but be brilliant in repayment?

Rose had practiced like it was her last hope. She'd danced like it was her oxygen. Through broken bones and bruised feet, she'd struggled to master everything that came her way. Her thighs had developed into steel supports beyond reproach, her feet, disfigured from long hours en pointe, breezed through the Cecchiti method. Her studies were rigorous and relentless, much of the rest of her schooling falling by the wayside as she threw herself into mastering the dances set before her.

Maman worked longer and longer hours to pay for the increasing expenses of more advanced dance masters. Even then, she still found time to attend Rose's recitals, to celebrate her victories, to sit and critique as her precious ingénue thrived under the strict tutelage of men and women from far off Russia, Italy and France. There was a rebellious streak in Rose for certain, a tendency to interpret the moves with a flair of her own, but she never shirked her responsibilities. She never faltered in her commitment. Never missed a lesson. This was her gift from her precious and beloved Maman, and when she was a famous ballerina, she would return the investment a hundred fold. Maman would never have to work again.

That had been the plan. How quickly it had shattered. Now she had only the stern visage of her father, this mystery man with a dark past and a dangerous job. How strange life was, how quickly it could all change.


	18. Memory

It's funny, the things you remember... Rose received her first pair of pointe shoes on the same day Britain declared war on Germany for this encore of the Great War. Maman had made her wait until after she turned twelve before she scrabbled together enough money for both the slippers and the lessons. Rose had been twelve for months, and was starting to think Maman was never going to relent. It had little to do with the cost, though they were twice the price of her regular dance shoes. There was something about the way dancing en pointe made your foot bones shift and grind that worried Maman something fierce. She worried that if Rose started too soo, she'd cripple herself permanently, deforming her feet beyond repair. It did not, of course, stop the young Rose from trying to dance without the shoes or training. Once she committed to a task, she was fully invested.

The morning she received her pointe shoes dawned grey and gloomy, the harsh winds of September just starting to sweep across the row of cheap, Manchester flats. The weather was unseasonably cold, even by their standards, and the dismal rain was unrelenting. Still, Rose remained a cheerful child, her own bright nature spurred on by Maman's commitment to filling their small home with smiles and laughter. What they lacked financially, they more than made up for in love.

That morning Lillian was singing brightly in the kitchen, no little rain cloud could quell her spirits, for she was going to surprise her girl that day. The cheerful little song was a complex melody from her childhood in Cambodia, full of words that Rose only half understood. Though she had lost most of the language over the years, the songs had remained. Something that tied them back to their heritage, an echo of the past that they would never let go of. Even if holding on meant Lillian faced some unpleasant figures for her background, she would not waver. Nor would she let any of that scorn fall back on her daughter, who had so much of that unnamed father in her, you had to look hard for the traces of Lillian beyond her diminutive size.

Rose bounded down the stairs excitedly, tumbling dramatically and performing a perfect pirouette before launching into her seat. Her energy was seemingly endless, and the petite ballerina woke up ready to face the world. Lillian placed breakfast before her daughter, a milky porridge topped with one egg, over easy because Rose didn't like the yolks runny. With a chipper exclamation of thanks, the girl had tucked in, about halfway through when Maman had placed an elegantly wrapped package in front of her. She'd barely been able to finish eating, almost choking as she'd rushed through the rest of her breakfast, Maman's merry laughter like music around her.

Even in her enthusiasm to get at her gift, Rose had been careful not to rip the paper, neatly folding it to one side for later reuse. It was a sign of their poverty then, but a trait that would later become even more useful as War made more and more goods hard to find. She knew how hard Maman worked for everything they had, and the excited young girl had nearly cried when she pulled out the shoes. In fact, when Maman leaned forward to whisper that she was receiving not only the shoes, but dance lessons from a Russian master who had recently relocated to their country, Rose did cry, wrapping her mother in a damp hug.

Later that day, reports that War had been declared came over the radio. Maman was shaken, and took to bed with a megrim, the first Rose had ever seen her suffer from. Maman was worried, but she wouldn't tell Rose about who, or why. After a few days, though, things were back to normal. Well, as normal as they could be. The dancing master was wonderful, delighted with Rose's abilities, and the quickness with which she took to en pointe. He was the strictest teacher she had ever had, accepting nothing short of perfection, but he tempered it with a gentle touch that brought out the best in young Rose. He told her that her small size would be an asset as a dancer, allowing her to hold more muscle mass while still remaining lighter than the taller dancers.

When the Russian instructor left (deported for being a spy, or so said the rumour mill), Rose was distraught. It was the first time the politics of War and it's burgeoning influence had truly shaken the young girl's world. She had big dreams, and she decided then and there that she'd not let anyone stand in their way. The world had better watch out, because Lillian Worth's daughter was going to stun them.


	19. Reconciliation Breakfast

Rose stood in her father’s kitchen. What a strange thought that was. Years with only herself and Maman, but here she was. He had eggs in the icebox, fresh herbs on the windowsill… and even cheese. Clearly the rationing of the war had not extended to his home yet. Or maybe it was the work he did; perhaps it allowed him special privileges. Certainly some of Maman’s friends had access to such things while she was still alive. With a small sound of pleasure, she cut off a slice of the hard, salty English cheddar, bringing it to her nose to smell it before she took a bite. Rose’s eyes closed in pleasure. It had been a long time since she’d had something so simple, and it filled her with joy.

Moving around her father’s kitchen with surprising comfort, given how recently she had come to his home, she lit the stove and located the butter dish perched haphazardly between stacks of plates in the cupboard. She couldn’t find anything as fancy as lemon in Slade’s kitchen, but she did find some vinegar under the sink with the cleaning supplies, and she could work with that. Whistling softly she set up an impromptu double boiler on the stove, a pot of water not quite boiling beneath, while a metal mixing bowl sat above to catch the heat.

One by one she separated the yolks from three eggs, setting the whites aside for other purposes, you wouldn’t want to waste anything. She added one tablespoon of the vinegar, hoping that the lemon replacement wouldn’t ruin the dish too badly, before slowly stirring in half a cup of butter, watching as the sauce slowly thickened. Tasting a small amount, she decided to add in some salt and pepper to mask the slightly more acidic flavor the vinegar gave the sauce.

Once that was complete she pulled apart a pair of English muffins with a fork and set them into the oven for toasting. She removed the bowl from her double boiler set up and placed it on a rear burner to keep warm with the heat from the oven.  Adding another dash of vinegar directly to the water in the pot, she raised the water up to a boil and broke two eggs into separate dishes. She stirred the water in the pot until it was all in movement, pouring the eggs one at a time, white first, into the moving water to poach them.

They weren’t perfect, the one had a distinct tail and the second had lost part of the white, but they were poached. Grabbing a partial leg of salted pork from the ice box she carefully sliced several thin shavings off, building a little nest on each of the toasted muffins, brightening the display with a few sprigs of fresh herbs from her father’s kitchen window box. Then went the poached egg, all topped with the soft yellow sauce.

Looking down at the dishes, Rose felt rather proud of herself. Egg benny had been a tough dish to master, but it didn’t look half bad at all. Chin high with pride, she went off to locate and feed her father. If this wasn’t a peace offering, she didn’t know what was.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing this with a friend whose not on AO3, so I apologize for delays in updates, we both have pretty busy schedules.


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